


The Sweetest Ache

by Numbers



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Equius, F/M, Matesprit Kismesis Double Reach Around, One True Pairing, Roboaradia, aradia - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Numbers/pseuds/Numbers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fiction that briefly explores Equius and Aradia's relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweetest Ache

There are days when you just want to rip out his intestines and decorate the walls with them. There are days when you just grow so angry, so sick of it all, so tired and so frustrated that your insides begin to burn beneath the weight of her hidden flame, and you yearn to just swallow him up in a world of fire. There are days when you feel like drowning, dying, yielding to that desire to fall down and rust like all the other broken robots.

You want to yell at him, scream at him, break him down and bury him. You sense him, there, that black, slithering creature that sweats between the shadows. He crawls like a parasite, feet clomping and stomping about while he pretends to be silent. Yet you can hear him breathing, inhaling, living, and sometimes you swear you can hear his sweat dripping off of him. He watches you. You know he does. He doesn’t make much of an effort to hide it. And you hate it, you the feeling like you have no real control over this situation – no real control over him.

He is unpredictable to you, despite _being_ so predictable.

You are about to tell him this, tell him to stop following you, tell him to go fight robots or whatever it is he does. You are about to tell him, you are sure you are, tell him how much you hate him with every fibre of your being and yet. Yet.

He kisses the back of your neck.

She gasps. She melts. She falls into your hands while your tongue scrapes against metal. You can’t say she tastes good, but the thrill alone is enough to encourage you. Incite you. Excite you. She is pure passion and fire that invades every vein you own and sets your senses alight. There’s a thrill as you explore the crook of that neck you built, as your hands brush so gently over the metal you spent so long hammering and breaking in. Oh, you used to be so harsh to her body, so very harsh, but now you can finally worship it.

This is all so wrong, all so delectably, disgustingly wrong. Yet you utter no words of complaint, and only begin to whisper words of praise against her body. She is your goddess, and though you feel you should pity her – and oh, how you did pity that foul red that once bound her to the lower, feculent echelons of society – now she is nothing but perfection. Perhaps you pity the lack of true skin she has, pity every single bolt that your hands gently caress, pity the way her lamp like, red, foreign eyes close over and her blue eyelashes dust the ridge of her cheek in pleasure. She has strength within that body of hers, strength within that mind of hers. She could do anything to you. And you love it, love feeling like you have no real control over the situation – no real control over her.

She is a goddess to you, despite being nothing of the sort.

You are about to tell her, beg her, to take this further, or to ask if this is alright, or to awkwardly end this before things got taken any further – you are about to tell her how much you pity her, how red your feelings are and yet. Yet.

She walks away.

You are not in the mood. He can make you gasp, make you moan, make you clutch at his hair and hold back screaming his name between soft, hollow whines – probably – and yet you are absolutely not in the mood. He has never made you laugh. He has never made you smile. He probably never will, but that doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter. All that mattered was playing into the hands of fate, and playing this game that they had all been locked in all along. You did not predict this, and nor did you ask for these feelings, so you throw them away.

You look to him, and you can tell he wants something more. You can tell he wants comfort, consoled and a promise that this was truly real. You know he wants to know you pity him too, and – to be honest, sometimes, in the messy confusion of your hatred for him, sometimes you really do pity that man. It’s an awkward dance, just as everything about him is awkward and yet… You cannot tell him that. There are more important things to do.

So you say nothing.

You think of Vriska, and let instead a new passionate, broiling rage erupt – and you leave with a wave of your hand.

You stand alone. Sated, perhaps, yet a little too full of some kind of sorrow or confusion. You are sure you know the next step, to go and find Nepeta and yet you cannot help but stand and stare at the spot where she simply vanished. You are unsure if you should feel hurt or upset or simply happy that she has given you a little piece of her.

You, in the end, resolve that you are used to waiting. You have, after all, waited so long for her. You’ve watched her, followed her, dreamed of her for quite some time. She was the peasant girl, the one draped in red that danced between the threads of reality and fantasy – tempting you into a den of sin and stealing away all the morals you had once so cherished. She has broken you, tamed you, reined you in without ever saying a word. She was your fire, your muse, your passion. She has swallowed you, consumed you, and spat you out – again, all without saying a word.

Between her stares and her half closed eyes, between her frowns and her kisses, between her punches and her caresses, you never fully understood. You took pleasure from pain, and pain from the pleasure. Yet at least, at least, at least, you had her – in some form. She is all that is important to you – barring the girl in green.

You say one thing that she will never say to you.

“Goodbye.”

She will never hear it, and never care. You ache.


End file.
